


We Had Great Expectations

by dreamingrain



Series: The Irrationalist [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Gen, Genderswap, Post-Reichenbach, pre-Sherlock/John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingrain/pseuds/dreamingrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Post-Reichenbach drabbles from Fem!John's POV. Angst-ahoy! Pre-slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Had Great Expectations

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon, and Joan hates that. She wishes it were 5:26 or 2:15 or some other jarring uncomfortable time. But it’s 3:30 and even though the windows in her room are open, and the bed is made, she can’t find it within herself to either commit to leaving the bed, or fall asleep.

 

Her best friend is, after all, dead. 

She imagines this gives her a good reason to give up for a while.

She leaves her room to go to the toilet. Showers because she’s there and it saves her another trip.

She wonders if this is where she becomes Ms. Haversham.

 

She wants to say “Sometimes I see the stars above my head and for a moment I turn to make a pithy remark – something I know that will make Sherlock’s mouth twist – before I remember and then stars seem like a tragedy and I wouldn’t talk about them if there was a gun at my temple.”

 

She wants to say “There was a violin concerto in the background at Waterstones and I almost broke down in the Biography section. “

 

She says “I miss her very much.”

She says “I believe in her, and nobody can convince me otherwise.”

She sleeps when she can, she stays awake if possible. She doesn’t look up.

 

Harry stops by with awkward hugs and offers of a pint and they get pissed in the middle of the day. Harry swears that this was her last time but she comes back twice more and Joan silences the doctor in her and takes the cheap comfort.

After that Harry is sober and worried and Joan buys new foundation because her skin is paler than before, since Afghanistan. She needs to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

 

People talk about moving on but there’s no such thing as moving on from Sherlock Holmes. There’s only waking up and going to sleep and somehow stumbling through time.

 

Sarah gives Joan a week off for grievance, and cuts her hours. If there’s anything less helpful, it’s probably that she can’t bury herself in her work and do her best to maintain the flat on her own.

Not that she should worry. Two days after she’s confronted him she gets a text from MH. Sherlock had paid for their share of the flat for ten years.

Joan doesn’t ask how Sherlock found the money, but Mycroft texts her without prompting.

 

_In respect of the Adler Affair_

 

Which sends Joan to her room; hand fisted on her shoulder, trying to imagine that the pain she felt as the heated bullet tore through tissue and nerve endings is more than the one lurking in her chest. And if she feels a burning in the back of her throat and she can’t make out the ceiling through her blurry eyes, who is to know?

Who is to look at her and know her day?

It could’ve been love but it wasn’t.

The way it could’ve been the cat, but it wasn’t.

The way it could’ve been anyone dead on the pavement, but it wasn’t.

It was so much more than that – she tries to find a word and all she can summon is immense. There was immensity to her friendship.

 

She could have kissed Sherlock, but it would have seemed strange – like kissing your arm. She was an extension of Sherlock – belonged with, was needed by her.

And they didn’t teach her the word for that in Medicine, and they didn’t teach her the word for that in War.

And so Joan doesn’t speak about their relationship because she lacks the necessary vocabulary.

 

She read an article about words that don’t translate.

 Saudade, she whispers, lying in bed.

Saudade, she says to the chip and pin machine.

“Please place your items in the bagging area” it says back.

Saudade – walking home.

Saudade.

 

“Have you thought of writing everything down?” Ella taps the pen to her teeth.

Enamel clicks against plastic.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Joan explains, spreads her hands as if to say ‘I have nothing to offer’.

Ella frowns, lays her pen down – it’s from a hotel in Sheffield. Her teeth have left indents so she’s had it awhile. Conference? But Joan doubts it. More likely she’s visiting family. They always tell psychologists to never turn their gaze to their loved ones but it’s not like Ella could turn it off, Joan knows that feeling.

“If you had to guess?” Ella jolts Joan from her scrutiny with her words.

Joan speaks before she can stop herself “Once upon a time?”

 

Because hadn’t Joan thought Sherlock was the Snow Queen – only to find poor Kay instead, face white as snow.

Her best friend, lead astray by the wrong sort of text. 

 “Do you wish it had been a fairytale?”

“It already was.”  

 Saudade.


End file.
